


Fingers; Something to Do with Them

by hurinhouse



Category: White Collar
Genre: Explicit Language, Light Dom/sub, M/M, little bit of tame Watersports but casual with NO humiliation and not on the body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>El may be the event planner, but Peter needs no help with itineraries</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingers; Something to Do with Them

Mmmmm. Hand stroking his bare hip, past his knee, over his ankle, around his arch. Lazy and soft. Just the right amount of callous. Back the same route, slow, easy, heaven. He rotates bonelessly and the hand sneaks between his legs, lifts just so. When cool air rushes into warm spaces he gasps awake.

"Keep your eyes closed." Low rumble behind him, commanding, comforting. _He hadn't opened them_ , he wants to protest, but he lays his cheek back onto the pillow and a cock nudges him, bumping his balls from behind. His own morning wood aches, not only because he hasn't had his first piss of the day, and a slight breeze brushes over his back, coaxing every muscle to shiver. They'd left the canvas walls of the pavilion rolled up when they'd crashed, arriving late and tipping the steward to leave till midday next. Through his eyelids he can tell dawn is just barely at the horizon. 

"Open your mouth." He does so without thinking and is rewarded through a straw, cool water drenching his still parched throat. Still parched after three water bottles coming off the dry plane last night.

He'd felt the mattress dip earlier, when it was darker. "Where- " he'd croaked, reaching out at the loss. But he'd been cut off by a soft purr, "Go back to sleep, Neal," and the sound of bare feet padding across the concrete.

He drops off again, now, fingers skimming between his cheeks. Cozy, soothing. Rubbing down, up, in long rhythmic swipes. Warm and endlessly slick, lulling his mind, stirring his body. Each time they pass his entrance it clenches just slightly, idly building pressure behind the base of his cock. So full.

There's concentration now, attention dedicated to his hole, dipping just in and out during each slow pass. When the first finger breaks ground he groans, pulls his hand from beneath his face and reaches for his cock, so hard he knows it could cut glass. Maybe not the best image when he's beating off.

"No." 

The reprimand is firm, wrist placed back under the pillow. His complaint is loud but he stays put. He knows where his bread is buttered.

The finger hits bottom, his lower half twitching in reply. It rests there, testing and tapping, smooth skin kissing his core, the prostate dance plunging his ass further back. He whines when the finger departs, a fond chuckle countering him, but two fingers make it better, in and out for several agonizing moments until twin tips brush deep down again and he has to pant into the spasms. His bladder's getting the same treatment by default but he'll be damned if he's going to complain when his whole body is living a wet dream. 

He squirms, raising his hips for better access, "Fuck me."

"Not yet." Peter is such a control freak. 

Neal had been proud of the man for booking the rental himself, suspicious that he chose a luxury private exclusive with an outdoor bed draped in canopies. Not Peter's style.

More lube, and three fingers nudge ground floor repeatedly, rubbing and rippling from inside out and he begs, "Please. God, Peter. Just let me- " 

His palm inches down again and Peter growls, "Don't you move that hand." And there goes that idea. 

Peter fingerfucks him like a pimp and Neal's apparently his obedient little slut. The sounds coming from his throat are desperate but he can't stop; he ruts down into the mattress each time Peter's hand pulls back, shoves back onto his fingers when it pulses forward again. Back and forth and nothing touching his cock but silk - it's unbearable. He has to clutch his hands together to keep them away.

Peter shifts down his body, tongue sponging a trail as he goes, hand still rocking into him. His tongue swirls round Neal's balls and Neal jerks and gasps and finally. Finally comes hard, muscles crushing Peter's fingers, hips thrusting into the bed until he knows the sheets are liquefied. 

Peter keeps going. Even after Neal's winding down. "Peter stop." And he can feel it coming, from deep within. He can hold it, but only for so long if Peter keeps up. 

"Why, Neal?"

"You know why."

Peter pushes in, his cock this time, much larger, but Neal is so stretched now it doesn't matter. It'd feel incredible after he'd just come but for his bladder and he's starting to panic-

"Peter, stop!"

Peter keeps driving in and he pulls Neal onto his knees, breath harsh in Neal's ear. He's close. Neal can hear the strain in his voice. "What? You can't wait?" 

"You know I can't, you bastard." He has to squeeze it back down with every hit and he knows damned well that Peter can feel that, is getting harder each time. 

He thought he'd felt the man get out of bed earlier. Now he realizes it was a trip to the pool's cabana and this moment has been planned for weeks. He fights, tries to get off of the bed, to head for the private cottage bathroom. But he likes to let Peter win once in a while, so it's half-assed. And Peter has never needed cuffs to make him behave.

Peter wraps his arms round Neal's torso and pulls him up during an in-stroke, bringing his back flush with Peter's chest, never breaking rhythm. Their skin glides through mingled sweat with every thrust. The angle's worse this way. He won't last.

"Whenever you need to, Neal." And Peter waves his hand in the general direction of the patio beyond the bed.

"No!"

"Oh yes."

"Fucker."

Neal's hips jut forward and he can't hold it any longer. He lets loose, sharp and heavy, splattering golden against the concrete, bouncing into the grass. Feels like gallons. Peter reaches around and holds Neal's balls while he pumps into him one last time, his come filling up behind as Neal lets it go in front. Neal hates this and it feels so good, the relief, the acceptance. Christ if it was possible to get hard again at this point he'd be steel right now. They're both panting and pumping and swearing and groping and once Neal's done, Peter bats his hands away and shakes him off, pulling them back down into a sweaty mess.

They lie together for long aching minutes, random petting, kisses to plastered hair. It's just the first day.

"So, there's a toilet in the cabana?"

He can feel Peter smile in reply, "Yep."

He closes his eyes again, "I'll be planning the next vacation."


End file.
